


like my heart is hitting the ground

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Character Death, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: She's touched herself before, but it's never felt anything like this. Not like the thrill that rushes through her when Felix's tongue, then fingers, push against her folds, Sylvain's voice gentle as he guides Felix through the process. She shouldn't fall victim to them, shouldn't make decisions that she might someday come to regret, but her grim thought from earlier rings through her mind loud and clear: they might soon die at war.That's enough cause to be a little irrational.Ingrid makes some bad decisions in the throes of war.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 74





	like my heart is hitting the ground

War's made a foolish woman out of Ingrid.

She's spent years training herself in the image of a stalwart knight: trading impulse for honor, mischief for faith. Ingrid's stripped down her youthful rowdiness and let the blemishes from her scraped knees fade, replacing them with battle scars and hard-earned poise, wearing her ideals as armor in a world that would see them crushed. She's strived to be a grounding force for her flighty childhood friends, the beacon of rationality in their self-made mess rather than an enabler of disasters.

She shouldn't be in Sylvain's room. Never mind how warm Felix feels pressed up against her back, how a thrill rushes up her spine when his teeth graze against her collarbone. When Sylvain pulls her forward she moans into his kiss, enjoying how strong his arm feels against her lower back, and how roughly Felix's hands trace against her waist-- it feels so good to be pressed up against them like this, even when it shouldn't. Her heart pounds quick and loud as thunder, and she isn't sure if she's trembling with excitement or fear, or if it's just the exhilaration and panic that comes with straying from the path of righteousness, an almost childlike glee that she'd thought she'd long left behind. Sylvain pulls away from the kiss, leaning in closer so both Ingrid and Felix can hear him whisper.

“Just making sure one last time. You're both fine with this, aren't you?”

Ingrid knots her brow and purses her lips, stubborn. “I wouldn't be here if I wasn't,” she mutters, just as Felix responds with “Do you take me for a nitwit?” Sylvain heaves a sigh of relief, and he unhooks the back of Ingrid's bra, gingerly folding it up and placing it on his bedside table. There's scarcely enough room on his bed for the three of them, but they make do, and Ingrid pushes herself closer into Felix, a gasp falling from her lips as he reaches out to toy with her nipples.

When Sylvain kisses her once again she mirrors how his tongue curls into hers, and when Felix dips a clumsy hand between her thighs she bucks forward in arousal. Ingrid's touched herself before, but it's never felt anything like this, not like the thrill that rushes through her when Felix's tongue, then fingers, push against her folds, Sylvain's voice gentle as he guides him through the process. She shouldn't fall victim to this, shouldn't make decisions that she might someday come to regret, but her grim thought from earlier rings through her mind loud and clear: they might soon die at war.

That's enough cause to be a little irrational.

Sylvain's always had her wrapped around his little finger. If anyone could dupe her into being a part of this circus, it would be him, bright and radiant, ingenuous and warm. And on the other side of the spectrum there's snarling, acerbic Felix, every word he speaks sharp but sincere, every motion of his tongue questing and exploratory as he continues to eat her out. Sylvain takes Ingrid's hand as she orgasms, pleasure crashing through her in a ripple, then a wave, holding her through the surge of delight. He crushes his mouth against hers, and she's howling with indulgence, screaming both their names until she's done.

Ingrid pulls away from Sylvain, blinking at him and Felix, stunned. She scarcely has time to react before Sylvain's tugged Felix back onto the bed, muttering, “Your turn now,” before proceeding to kiss him senseless. And when they're all finished they lie there in a collapsed heap, panting and heaving in various states of undress, and Sylvain is the first one to pipe up.

“I'm happy to do this again if you'd both like.”

Felix pulls himself off the bed, grabbing his underwear and trousers from where they're folded on Sylvain's chair. “I'll think about it,” he murmurs, which in Felix-speak means _yes_. Ingrid wishes she had his conviction.

  
  
*  
  


Sylvain's invitation sears through Ingrid's mind, his honeyed baritone whispering flattery into her ears when she lies in bed alone, the memory of his lingering touches guiding her as she fondles herself at night. And one evening when the fevered sensation between her legs is too warm to bear, she bursts out of her room, eyes flickering up and down the hallway to hide from prying eyes. When the coast is clear she races down to Sylvain's room, hammering down his door and slipping inside. He greets her with a smile, pleasant and artificial as ever.

“Anything you need?” Sylvain starts. He barely has time to say more before Ingrid crushes her mouth against his.

He's not used to someone else taking the initiative like this, Ingrid is quick to realize. There's something about how his eyes go wide, about his moment's pause before he begins to kiss her back-- there's something in Sylvain's hesitance when he grabs her waist that suggests some unfamiliarity. And when he leans into the kiss, he does so with a pushy gusto that was missing from their previous encounter, the appetite of someone who's been starved.

She's watched countless bodies dip in and out of Sylvain's room, people with different names and shapes and genders all victim to his charms. Yet Ingrid's confident about the distinct nature of their dalliance, even if Sylvain has never spelled the words out: he does not intend to hurt her. She can feel it in the way he grabs her and presses his nose against hers, brushing strands of hair out of her face; he then squats down to scoop her up, cradling Ingrid gently as a lover. Much as Sylvain can be callous and harsh, he's never dealt Felix or Ingrid long-lasting harm, and she trusts him enough to put her lust in his hands, to chart the canvas of her body.

Ingrid has no illusions about the nature of their relationship. They've been friends for years, and a single rendezvous, or two, isn't going to change that. Nevertheless, they're so close that it blurs the lines, and when he marches towards his bed Ingrid can't help but wonder if he treats every girl like she's precious. Delicate is something that Ingrid's never been, and she throws her arms around his neck, pulling Sylvain down close to press their lips together. Around Sylvain she doesn't have to pretend, doesn't have to fit into a marriageable mold that's small and light and dainty. She's never been afraid to hold anything back from Sylvain, after all. This should be no different.

She hears his heartbeat pound against his chest as he falls onto the bed after her. Ingrid knows what it's like to want, danced with concepts such as _I wish_ and _I should_ , but she's never known this sort of yearning, an insatiable hunger that burns through her belly and digs into her loins. In the dim candlelight she kisses Sylvain like he's real, allows his fingers to rub circles between her legs like she won't regret this in the morning. His reputation proves more solid than his empty promises and flippant facade, and Ingrid comes with a gasp, feeling a shudder ripple through her that's thrilling and terrifying and tender all at once.

Sylvain presses his forehead against hers and smiles. “I've dreamed of this for so long,” he murmurs, words tinged with such sincerity that it's a miracle Ingrid doesn't believe him. She slips out from Sylvain's room before he has the chance to wake up in the morning.

  
*  
  
  


Ingrid sees her own hunger mirrored in Felix-- Sylvain has unleashed a beast within them that neither quite knows how to contain, and when they're alone they both want more, _more_ . His fingernails dig crescent-shaped marks into her back as she thumbs against his sweet spot, scowling when she whispers, “ _Are you okay._ ” Outside the bedroom Felix hates thinking of himself as insecure, but when their clothes are off it's evident how this is amplified: the scratching, the frowning, the bite marks that dot her chest and neck every time they're done. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and Ingrid unleashes a gasp of joy, a sick pleasure at being devoured that she could never have imagined.

It's a little easier when it's just them. Without the expert in the room there's less pressure to perform, less shame when their teeth clack against each other's or when their foreheads crash. Her private trysts with Felix are a combination of exploratory and pleasurable, and occasionally Felix is content to sit back and just watch. Yet the Faerghan need to serve rushes through Ingrid's veins, and oftentimes she can persuade Felix to participate; to let her pepper him with kisses, rub circles into his skin. When Felix asks if she'll finger him from the front she's quick to oblige, and equally quick to draw back when he heaves a panicked “No.” He's quick to clarify with a “not this time,” but she'd be perfectly happy with a _not ever_.

Here's what Felix tells her: Sylvain's touches can be surprisingly gentle. He lets Felix set the pace, take the lead, wrestle control from Sylvain when he wants it and shove it back at him when he's done. Sylvain's smile when he's pinned underneath Felix is lopsided but still handsome, and he never sounds more vulnerable than he does when he pleads.

When he and Sylvain are together Sylvain is tender, accommodating, warm. He knows when to pay special attention to the parts of Felix he doesn't like-- he kisses the scars on Felix's chest, traces the slit between his thighs-- and when to ignore them for the parts of him he does, praising his hard-earned abs, his arms, his jawline. When Felix crushes his lips against Sylvain's he does it like their world could end, and Sylvain returns it in kind, callused hands gripping Felix as though he might vanish into smoke.

“We're just friends,” falls from Felix's mouth when Ingrid brings herself to inquire, each syllable dripping like acid. _I wish we weren't_ goes unsaid between them. Felix yanks Ingrid in by the collar, pulling her close in languid embrace.

  
  
*  
  


It's the moments they're all together that Ingrid cherishes most. She knows she is a fool to place stock in physical comforts, especially when they're under the heavy curtain of _we might die at war_ , but she's come to enjoy piling into bed with Sylvain and Felix both. Sylvain's silver tongue and Felix's barbed words play off against each other's, swirling into banter that mirrors their dynamic outside their bedroom walls. Sometimes they get in contests to see who pleasures Ingrid more, Sylvain pushing into her while Felix leaves marks down her neck, a playful one-upmanship that leaves her sighing in frustration and then panting in arousal.

Never in her wildest dreams had Ingrid thought she'd have encounters like these, touched by the lips and teeth and hands of not one person, but two; sex for the sake of relief over duty, pleasure over deed. With each and every gentle brush against her skin she unravels piece by piece, and she's chasing the intensity of an ethereal high, the rapture of a warmth she's not quite sure she can place. Her lips chafe against Felix's and she's awash with a calm sense of peace, the knowledge that he and Sylvain have been there for her for so long that there's no turning back, and the comfort that no matter how far she goes astray, they'll light a lantern for her safe passage home. It's not the romance of picture books.

(It's not romance. This might be better.)

Sylvain grins and rubs a finger on her clit and the thrill that pulses through her veins is electrifying. Felix toys with her nipples while Sylvain continues to work, and Ingrid's completely at their mercy, all dignity given up to them in sweet surrender. She screams at the climax, feeling every knot and every fear in her body come undone at once, all sense of control she's worked to build for herself falling apart in a single moment. It's just like Sylvain to stretch out her high, whispering her name, _Ingrid, Ingrid, I've got you, Ingrid_. When he pulls out to cast away his condom she falls into Felix's arms, a momentary respite before she takes care of him as well.

They lie there till morning this time, a tangle of hair and legs and arms that lace perfectly into one another's. One by one they slip out of bed, piling into the war room like this encounter never happened.

  
*  
  


The word “bloodbath” has lost all meaning now they're in the throes of war. Ingrid knows this, but Rodrigue's death at Gronder Field still leaves her stricken with grief.

She does not share his blood nor bear his name. But she was engaged to his son, once, and when she'd visited Fraldarius Manor as a child she'd envisioned Rodrigue as her future father-in-law, an unbreakable cornerstone of chivalry whose visage she'd wished to emulate. Even in the wake of Glenn's passing, Rodrigue still treated her like his daughter-- and now he's gone, gone just like his son before him, laid to rest with Glenn's sword in a bed of dirt.

Ingrid could very well be next. Once, she'd have considered it an honor to die for king and country; now she's beginning to wonder if it might be more valiant for her to _live_ instead. She'd never witnessed Felix grieving in wake of Glenn's death. She wonders if he'd reacted then the way he does now-- her attempts to talk to him are met with derisive glares, deflective scowls, and demands to leave him alone. She doesn't blame him; she'd locked herself up in her room for weeks when Glenn had first passed, after all.

The war gives Ingrid a cause to get out of bed every morning, but grief leaves people as haunted shadows of themselves. She's simply going through the motions, wandering the halls of the monastery with tear-crusted, vacant eyes. Sylvain's persistent “Can I help”s and “Are you okay”s are met with a quick shake of the head. There's nothing he can do. He cannot help, and she is not okay, and she shouldn't expect herself to be.

It's been a week of wallowing when Felix wraps his fingers around Ingrid's wrist, pulls her close to him, and snarls, “Meet me in my room tonight.”

That evening she kisses every inch of Felix's exposed skin, leaves marks from the tips of his collarbone to the side of his chest. Wordlessly, Felix guides Ingrid's strap-on towards his rear, and when he sinks down onto it his fingernails dig into the small of her back. He sucks marks into her neck as he rocks up and down. Felix grunts while he rides her, breaths soft and low, and she reaches out tentatively, pressing a finger against the small nub of flesh between his legs.

She'd loved Glenn as her duty and Rodrigue as her family, but Felix straddles a fine line between brother and lover and friend. She's not quite sure what that means, but she knows she wants things for them both to be better, and if this is what he desires she's always been trained to serve. Ingrid proceeds to rub circles into him, quickening her pace with his gasps. Felix's orgasm is silent, but he shudders as it ripples through, and his grip on Ingrid tightens. There'll be scratch marks when she wakes up in the morning.

She says nothing about the tears that stain her shoulder, or how he's shaking, still, as she pulls out; she sits there in silence for a moment, gaze trained on Felix, studying his expression for hints of what to do next. When he offers no indication she gets up and unhooks the straps of her dildo, ready to clean off the mess of sweat and fluid and lube, only for Felix to hiss at her.

“Are you an imbecile? You aren't leaving before-- before you,” he flushes, “Just get back here.”

Ingrid had allowed her hair to grow out after Glenn had died, letting her blonde locks sprawl across her shoulders and down her back. It had been a ratty, split-ended mess that Mercedes and Annette had lamented about and wanted to tame, but it felt too wrong to change her appearance after her fiancé's passing, as though it would betray him. Yet the night before their reunion she'd decided she'd chop it all off. She'd shown up at the edge of Fraldarius and Galatea territory sporting a butchered version of her current appearance, and Felix had glared at her, telling her that she was not showing up at Garreg Mach looking like that. He'd taken a knife to her hair, slicing and dicing it into something more presentable.

Poetry's never been her forte. Yet Ingrid can't help but wonder if there'd been something symbolic about that act, something that intertwines into what's happening now. Felix, so mired in trying to push away his own grief that he projects it onto someone else; Felix, inadvertently helping her with her messes as he struggles to deal with his own. He fucks her with his fingers, thrusting them into her with a steady rhythm. Ingrid comes once, then twice, feeling white-hot pleasure sear through her body as she shouts, screaming her pain and hurt and sorrow into the rafters, uninhibited for what feels like the first time in her life. When she's finally done she's crying too, tears streaming down her cheeks and staining the blanket. Felix collapses next to her when they're done.

“We'll be fine,” he says, voice shaking from uncertainty and exhaustion. He's assuring her as much as he is himself.

  
  
*  
  


Sylvain hasn't approached her for sex since Rodrigue's passing, and Ingrid's tired of being treated like glass. Her imagination and fingers are scarcely enough to sate the growing heat inside her body, her pent-up frustrations from all the battles and blood. And one day when she's had enough of yearning she marches down the hallway and raps on Sylvain's door, greeting him with a “fuck me,” and a rough, passionate kiss. She'll never tire of the way Sylvain freezes, the way his eyes go wide whenever she takes the lead; how it always takes him a split second to recover before he kisses back. When he does it's slow and soft, as though either of them could shatter. It's only this time, when he pulls Ingrid in gently and whispers “I missed you,” that Ingrid realizes that he could have been the one to break.

She's likely just one of two people who have seen him like this-- Sylvain the chronic cheater, the foolish flirt being reduced to a moaning mess, backed up against his wall as one of his childhood best friends leaves kisses down his chest. Sylvain, normally so gregarious and composed, digging his fingernails into Ingrid's scalp as she rolls his trousers down and kisses him down his thighs, fingers tracing the battle scars and burn marks left from Bolganone spells gone awry. He trembles as she licks a stripe against his cock, shaking with arousal and longing and trust, and Ingrid realizes then what she should have known all along: they're only here because this means something to them. To all of them.

“ _It's just sex_ ,” Sylvain had said months ago when they'd first proposed this arrangement, flippant. “ _Of course I'll take care of both of you_.” So when was the last time he'd allowed someone else to tend to him like this? He's had so many partners at this point that surely someone else must have put his pleasure before their own. Yet Sylvain averts his gaze as she wraps her lips around the head of his cock; he emits a pleasured, virginal yelp when she reaches out a tentative hand to brush against his balls. A flush crosses his cheeks, and Ingrid realizes this with a jolt: he must have never let them.

Why would he, when he's crafted his narrative around the idea that his body is just a vessel to be used by others, for them to take, and to take, and to take? Sylvain's always been able to control just how much of himself he gives, and how much he gets back, but he's taught her that sex should be about her-- and right now she wants to see him undone. Ingrid edges forward slightly, wrapping her tongue around his cock, licking and sucking gently as noises continue to spill from him. Ingrid continues to lave at him, driven by lust and arousal and the undying desire to prove him wrong. She shifts slightly on her knees, mouth and tongue hard at work, eyes fixed on Sylvain as he grimaces, struggling not to thrust forward. He grabs her hands and places them on his hips, muttering “Anchor me,” and by the Goddess she will, she _will_.

She grips him tightly as he deserves, pushing him deeper into the wall, letting her tongue gently brush up and down against Sylvain's cock as he continues to wail. When she trails against a spot at the base of his dick he lets out a particularly loud whine, and Ingrid pauses for air, pulling back from him for a second while she massages her cheeks; she stares at his cock like it's a challenge, before sucking in a deep breath, opening her mouth and swallowing as much of Sylvain as she can.

And that's when he unravels. Sylvain is practically howling at this point, throwing his head back, screaming her name. His cock is hard and heavy in her mouth, uncomfortable as it hits the back of her throat, but she takes yet another look at how he's heaving and continues, determined to push through, each and every flick of her tongue a reminder that she's his friend, she's here. They should take care of each other. When he spills in her mouth she nearly gags with shock, but holds steady for him, fingernails digging into his hips, watching as he moans with pleasure and delight and a sincerity she hasn't seen reflected in his eyes since they were children.

He pulls back from Ingrid when he's finished, slumping down on his wooden floor. He beams up at her.

“I wondered if you had it in you,” Sylvain says. Perhaps he's the one who this all meant the most to all along.

  
  
*  
  


War's made a wanton woman out of her.

Some days, Ingrid wonders if she'll remain this lustful when they're done fighting. Peacetime is just on the horizon, after all. They march to Enbarr in a week, and if they win against the Empire the war will be over and done. Not that her work will be finished; they'll have to clean up the carnage, help lead the charge into a better tomorrow, but Ingrid is prepared to do that.

The first step is to make sure they all survive.

It had been Ingrid's idea to spend their last few nights together. Their post-training mornings are marked by lazy touches and gentle strokes, followed by kisses so passionate they're enough to set her heart ablaze. Sylvain muses about going back to Gautier and buying a bigger bed; they all cackle, but know that he's being completely serious. Meanwhile, Felix is surprisingly keen to experiment. They've taken to switching things up, working with toys and restraints and rope, fucking through the things that work for them and laughing through the ones that don't. Sylvain, tied to the bedposts as Felix and Ingrid take turns riding his mouth; Ingrid with both Felix and Sylvain inside her, gasping as she's being stretched out.

Gone are the days she was a rowdy ruffian, a gap-toothed child with bruised knuckles and scraped knees, but Ingrid can afford to act on impulse once in a while. In Felix and Sylvain's hands she feels cared for, loved. There's no doubt about the latter-- what they share might not look like romance in Ashe's books, nor the bedtime stories she was told at night-- but there's love there, an undeniable, unbreakable bond forged through years of friendship and the horrors of war. She's still uncertain about what kind, but first they have a fight to win--

– and then the rest of their lives to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> i broke a long, _long_ writing hiatus to post the very first fic i wrote for this fandom, [i want a love that falls as fast (as a body from the balcony)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661875), last september. it was 3.5k words of self-indulgent porn that arose from listening to way too much mitski. 
> 
> it feels fitting that i've returned to this ot3 a year later. 
> 
> when i first wrote this in april/may for fodlan secrets, i thought this was the best thing i'd ever written for this fandom, and was really sad that i'd have to wait until september to post it. i've since changed my mind, and there are WIPs/fics that i have that i think are stronger. i've also lost my fondness for long song lyric titles, but i thought that it was fitting that i kept the same title as i initially had because it comes from the same song (townie) lmao. 
> 
> that being said, i'm still super duper proud of this! anyway, you guys probably didn't want my navel-gazing with regards to smut. [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1301003878356250626?s=20) me if you'd like to, and find me on twitter @gautired!!


End file.
